Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Mimi-Mona Poetry: My Hero

My Hero
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Every Summer the oak leaf galls.
                             Every Summer finds another chapter closing so that the Fall
                   of one foot in front of the other brings you to me
          and the words I write that spell out my desire
                   also spell out yours. Enraptured with the
text of my unfinished poem,
                             tears bleeding through the sweat of life,
                   there was something there for you
          that was more than an authoritarian's litany.
Okay, so maybe I opened the windows;
                   but it was never from desperation,
                                      only anticipation of you entering and
                             bringing the seductive, ethereal lightning of Zeus.
Ten o'clock at night, even eleven or—
          when you awaken after falling asleep with that laughable excuse
                             I've fallen and I can't get up—
                   the phone rings at midnight
          in the forest of cacti. I hand you a machete
                   to cut into the prick---ly pear ...
          we're parched and water is needed to refresh dried lips.
Somewhere it's an oldie playing on someone's radio:
                             Love me like a man;
          believe me when I tell you,
                   you love me like a man,
                             as sure as a man can,
          and I blues it out with Bonnie Raitt.
The dragon awakes.
          Isn't it words and thoughts that always wake the dragon? Suddenly,
                                      flames! Everywhere!
                   You think I'm the flame thrower?
                             Yes, I can see me as a Diana with my bow
                             and lightning arrows of love and lust.
                                                But, no; it's not I.
                             I am the one who puts ink to paper,
                             I am the recorder of events and truths;
                                      you are the dream weaver of night tails
                   not as an apocryphal of tales, you invent and invade my dreams,
                                      creating our lust, throwing me
                                      to the cabin of your love boat,
                             pushing me flush against the wall,
                                      every ounce of my flesh rubbed—
                                                I'm between your rock and hard place.
Shut up!
          Coming down from my ivory tower
                             I laugh... You're a magician.
                                      You made the room spin.
I could only lie there and tell you I was once the princess
          in that tower I called my room and waited
          to be taken by you.
                                      You're my hero.
                   Fine. I'm the dragon setting you on fire;
                   I'm the woman who made it—
                                      I'm the one inside your head.
We explode, volcanoes of white-hot desire.
                                                Suddenly, darkness.
          Suddenly darkness and the dirtiest thing on your mind,
          darkness and base thoughts from the abyss,
                   the yellow-brick road to tomorrowland,
                                      the trumpet's blare, and
                                                actions déclassé.
We managed to live
                   through those heated moments of hurtful lies.       
                                                Destroyed; right?
                   Not just hidden under the floorboards; right?
                                                Yes; right.
          Some things frighten even a dragon causing her to
                   blow hot air.
No surprise it's all bread pudding
                   and chasing my naked ass up the stairs,
          through all the rooms in my castle,
          through all the visions in your mind —
                                      all boy toy and sex slave.
                   Marked, claimed, I become an abozzo,
                             like the painting on the easel in my studio.
Past baby steps, past cartwheels and tackles, past hysterics
                   past asking daisies hoping they'd know,
                             but never past fears or breathing salty water,
          I climb the tree and create a branch for two
                   that the wind can't bend or scatter its leaves before they wither.
                                      We roll on the ground laughing
                                      at the idea of policing love.
                             How rare it is, in this world, to find a friend,
                                      a true friend...
                                                one who becomes more.
There's life —there's living;
                             I've seen pictures; I create art.
                             Words might fall onto pages empty;
                                                It's your silence that strikes my heart.
                   So, I write the next lines:
                             We live ever after
                             in our tabernacle with new rooms
                             painted the color of trust and happiness.
                                                                   (Never) The End

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